


Delusion Lives in X Acts

by laeb



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Happy Ending, M/M, Non canon compliant, Non-Linear Narrative, Not gonna lie it's a lil weird, Pain, Post-Howarts, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince, Yes there's a happy ending despite the MCD warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-09
Updated: 2005-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laeb/pseuds/laeb
Summary: Some Tales begin with the dreaded words Once Upon A Time ... and quite often the Hero will live to see the End, wed their Beloved and expect Heirs who will one day Justly rule their Kingdom – while the Villains will be Punished for their Deeds and Treasons.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Kudos: 3





	Delusion Lives in X Acts

**Author's Note:**

> The poem at the end belongs to its author and was borrowed from the film Before Sunrise (1995).  
> This story was originally meant to be part of the HP/SS FQF From dusk-til-dawn (Wave VII: No Man is an Island). Hope you’ll enjoy!
> 
> (Originally published on my lj in June 2005. Retro-posted to AO3 in March 2020.)

_No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.  
_ \-- John Donne 

**_Delusion Lives in X Acts  
_ ** _  
_

_Foreword._

Some Faery Tales begin with the dreaded words Once Upon A Time ... and quite often the Hero will live to see the End, wed their Beloved and expect Heirs who will one day Justly rule their Kingdom – while the Villains will be Punished for their Deeds and Treasons.

This Tale, though not of the Faery kind, shall indeed begin with the Prophetic Once Upon A Time. However, gentle reader, beware what this Author says: there are no Rules or Conventions to guide the lives of the two Heroes of this story and thus, you shall not expect all that is Good and Just to triumph; nor all that is Vile and Cruel to be defeated soundly and without consequences. For those always were the Fates and Destinies of Severus Snape and Harry Potter ...

_The Author_

_  
__  
Act I: Where I came from  
_  
Once upon a time, a Dark Lord was born in the world of the Wizards and thus began the tedious Wars that would dictate the lives of all those who knew magic for decades ...

This was a war that drained followers of both the Light and the Dark side. Spies, allies, traitors and neutral men and women always found themselves giving more to the cause they believed in than they should; putting their bodies and minds to strenuous efforts and sometimes causing their own death by exhausting their soul to a point of no return.

Those who suffered such a fate would bring back to reality a few of those who were straining themselves, while others would simply deny the reason of their sad demise and object with a more _realistic_ , _sensible_ explanation of their death.

The two persons principally prone to this denial state of sort were, in appearance, enemies of old, while under the surface considered themselves companions of necessity. Severus Snape, double-crossing spy for the Light – acre, sour man with the most gruesome views on life and its people; and Harry Potter, bearer of the Dark Lord’s proverbial death, voluntarily naïve, sweet in tones and obedient in acts. Firm believer that he would accomplish what he was born to do and would then live the life he had never been able to since he had found himself, as a baby, at the door of the Dursleys.

Snape was eagerly waiting for that anticipated day to arrive, to happen; only so that he would then have the opportunity to rub it all in Potter’s face.

He could not wait.

_Act II: Daydream delusion  
_ _  
What am I, to you? What have I done to deserve such treatment from your part? Have I ever looked at you with contempt, with deceit in my eyes? Why are you pushing me away like this? You never pretended or claimed to love me, nor have I asked it of you. I have never taken more than you were willing to give me, Snape. The Gryffindor in me, remember?  
_ _  
And yet you turn your back on me; now when I need you the most, when I fear I will never see the sun rise or set again. Why did you have to leave_ now _? Could you never understand that for me the success always was a matter of you being there with me? Why abandon me now, Snape, when you’ve been by my side all those months? What went through your mind?  
_ _  
I cannot do this alone, Snape. I shall fail, now. Voldemort will die; however I will not live to enjoy that day.  
_  
‘He cannot be blamed, Headmaster. He’s been there for too long.’

‘And so have you, Harry. I see how you are slowly fading, and I do not wish to compromise your life, even for a quicker victory. We should wait two weeks, let everyone rest and gain some strength back. You need to rest as well, Harry.’

‘Do not shake your head like this, Albus, is does not become you. I told you I am as ready to face him as I’ll ever be. I would have appreciated Snape’s help of course; however if he felt his presence was of better interest elsewhere, I will trust his judgment. He has never failed you – nor me. He knows what he’s doing.’   
_  
Merlin knows I hope he does. What are you up to, Snape?_

_Act III: Those big eyes  
_ _  
One day, Potter, you’ll wake up, open your absurdly green eyes and see what has happened of the world while you were_ asleep _. I do not believe Albus’ theory, of course. How could you have_ freed _your soul from the confines of your body as Voldemort died?  
_ _  
And why do such a foolish thing to begin with? Why not have waited for my return? Albus had asked you for two extra weeks. An illogical, Gryffindor-ish action. Or maybe it simply is because it was you, Potter. But then, tell me why you have never found a way back to that expectant body of yours? It is still waiting, you see. It craves for its soul, and yet you have avoided it for three years, now. What have you been waiting for? Nerys told me he has never heard of anyone doing something like this before, and that your soul has not sought the shelter his haven offers.  
_  
Snape has grown stern and quiet since the end of the war; taciturn even, some murmur behind his back. He still teaches Potions at Hogwarts, and is the new Deputy Headmaster since Minerva took over Albus’ position as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Snape does not growl or show his teeth like a nasty old dog anymore – not like he used to, anyways. Instead, he stays cold and quiet, walks around the castle with this empty look in his eyes and the students from his House know not to look for him during the weekends, for he vanishes every Friday afternoon and is only seen again at breakfast on Monday morning. Never is he seen by anyone in between. Word amongst the students has it that he married when Voldemort was defeated and that he spends his weekends with his spouse.

Snape, upon hearing this the first time almost three years ago, burst into endless peals of incontrollable laughter. Laughter that hid hot, burning tears underneath. But then, the students didn’t know shit, did they?

Snape hates Fridays and delights in Mondays, nowadays. Three years ago, it was the complete opposite. 

Minerva sees, Minerva knows, and Minerva understands. She will not say anything of course since she knows better, but sometimes she cannot help herself and will gently squeeze his shoulder when she is certain there is no one around. And Severus, in spite of everything he has been taught and has learnt in his life, will welcome the comforting touch and put his own white, wax-like hand on hers and squeeze back

They will never talk or mention it, of course.

But even Severus Snape needs a friendly presence once in a while since Grimmauld Place feels so cold, empty, dead.  
 _  
Just like him._ But Snape never thinks about that, about _him_. Ever.

_Act IV: Fantasy parade  
_  
‘Oh fuck, Snape, you’re so fucking tight,’ Harry rasps, ‘the tightest arse since Malfoy, I fucking swear ...’ He babbles just as he keeps on ramming hard into his former professor, grunts with each thrust; mewls when he feels Snape tightening his muscles around his cock seconds later.

The greasy man does not answer him, he knows better than to do so when Potter is in that kind of mood, when he needs to be the one fucking his arse, when he needs to top, to be the dominant one. Instead, he thrusts his hips back, arches his back, bucks when the younger man brushes his prostate while fucking the life out of him, literally.

And when Potter grips his cock so hard it borders on pain, when he starts getting him off in sync with his powerful shoves, _in – out – in – out – in_ , he lets go of any control he has left, moans and cums in Potter’s hand seconds before the younger man withdraws from his now loosened hole, shouts and shoots his load all over his back in long, shaking, almost painful spurts.

He slowly lowers himself on Snape’s now sticky back and they stay there for a long time, awake and silent, waiting.

What for? They are still trying to figure this particular question out.

Potter finally falls asleep, his breathing slow and even, his body more relaxed than it ever is when he is awake.

All Severus knows is that he cannot judge Potter, he cannot blame him for what is happening since it never was his fault, and it never was about him. It always was about this damned Prophecy and Voldemort. At least they know that much.

#

And Snape knows, too, that Potter is somewhat fading, weakening. That he is loosing whatever strength and spirit that are left to him. He refuses to believe Albus’ bullshit, of course, but sometimes, while watching the green eyes that have lost all of their former fire, he wonders if there might not be a soupcon of truth to the old adages.

That is the moment when he remembers this wizard, Nerys, he met in Egypt well over twenty-five years ago. Pretended he held the secret to the curing of injured, weak souls; that he nurtured, healed the dispirited, broken souls that had lost their bodies. The souls sought his protection, he said, his refuge a haven where they felt less tormented. They could go on peaceful promenades and know there was a shelter, out there, for them to go back to.

It might be worth a quick investigation. The most recent reports assert that Voldemort will not be able to prepare an attack within the next two weeks; and Albus wants his own people to rest before preparing the next move. There is ample time for him to go away for a few days, visit Nerys, discuss a few important matters with him and then come back. There are plenty of potion supplies, he will not be missed. His mind set, he finally manages to drift off, his skin still reeking of sex and Harry Potter, the young man’s weight on his back a constant reminder of his presence.

_Act V: Delusion angel  
_  
In his dreams, Harry is always flying high in the sky, over the clouds. His hold on his old Firebolt is tight and strained – _How long? How long has it been? I can’t seem to remember anything ... Severus –_ Snape _–_ _where the_ fuck _are you? –_ and he feels his muscles cramp and it hurts _so_ much, all he wants to do is let go; but he knows, he _knows_ he’s too high in the sky. So he lies low on his broom – why is he not riding his Twinklingstar anyway? – and dives into the solid clouds under him.

Oh _GOD!_ The air is so thick, it hurts his lungs; it’s so cold, it’s burning –freezing!- his skin and now it’s his lungs that are burning from the lack of oxygen, no doubt. And he cries, his tears instantly turning to delicate icicles on his frozen cheeks, because he knows he has to go back over the clouds.

He can’t see anything, he doesn’t know where he is going, or how thick the clouds are and he _feels_ he can’t let go, that he has to hold on to his broom and go up again. To find solace in the warmer air – at least there is oxygen, there, he thinks – and as he finally breaks through, the tears on his cheeks melt and are at long last allowed to fall the way they are expected to.

So Harry wanders high again, where everything is grey and the sun does not shine. He aches, he is in pain, but that’s all right – until the next time – for, at least, he still feels alive.

Harry waits until the day he will finally wake from his strange dream. Soon, he hopes, I will break through the clouds and see the glowering sun. I’ll wake up, then. I know I will. _I hope?  
_  
#

Nerys has kept on doing researches based on the facts both Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape have filled him in with. He is an old man, has been dealing with soul cases long before Snape first met and doubted him. He’s a Ravenclaw to the core and knows, _hopes_ , there is something written out there, in a long forgotten book, about freed souls, about owners letting go out of necessity and with little other choice of survival.

There _has_ to be.

If Harry Potter managed such an exploit, then surely he wasn’t the first one to do so. And, anyways, he needs to find a way to bring it back or else the Wizarding World will lose a few extraordinaire beings to Potter.

Several friends who have lost hope – it’s been eighteen months already, he reminds himself – and are slowly but surely letting go. Potter was their rock, their everyday pillar.

Hogwarts’ Headmaster, Dumbledore, has never stopped blaming himself and will retire at the end of this school year to help him do the research, contact all those influential people he knows around the globe, reach out for any specialist or charlatan to hear about the most fantasist of theories – _just in case, Mr Nerys; we never know what we might stumble upon, you know ... –_ but Nerys knows; he’s been studying ’em souls for half a century now, offering them a sanctuary like none other when they need him. They know to head for his refuge, but then Potter’s did not.

And then, there’s Severus Snape; the Potions master and teacher. He searches in his own manner, perusing the darkest and most rare potions tomes he can get his hands on, diving deep in Dark Arts magic and beliefs – _we never know, Nerys, occultism, I beg your pardon, is not all there is. Potions, you see, can be extremely powerful and have unprecedented effects ... –_ and his hope is a thin thread he almost does not believe in, does not hold onto. _He must really care for Potter, then._ That and the fact he spends all his weekends at the Gryffindor’s bedside. He has changed, though his soul is still well-anchored. Nerys knows Snape is whiter, thinner, more placid, and has lost this burning fire that had made him the terror of Hogwarts for over three decades.

Too much is at stake, and Nerys knows there _has_ to be something written out there, somewhere. That is when he decides that the Library of Alexandria will be his next goal. Not everything, against that Muggle belief, has burnt and vanished into the void with the great fire that reduced the building to ashes.

_Act VI: What you mean to me  
_  
Albus stands in the threshold of the bedroom and the scene before him catches his breath and squeezes his heart so much there is a burning, defeated pain inside of him. 

There is Harry, of course, who looks as though he’s peacefully sleeping, a neutral, unguarded expression on his translucent face – _pale, so pale, Albus, all those blue veins and that damn scarlet scar! Why didn’t it vanish when he killed Voldemort, why, Albus?_ – his arms resting by his sides, and his hands slightly crooked for the muscles have not moved of their own in almost four years now. Despite his appearance, though, the former Headmaster of Hogwarts knows for a fact that Harry’s body is as warm and as pliable as any other sleeping wizard.

On the right side of the bed, there is a basin, most likely filled with lukewarm water, and clean cloths; while on the other side is sitting another former member of Hogwarts’ staff, pale, stained fingers twined with white ones.

As though holding onto dear life itself even in his sleeping state, Severus – his good Severus, who has given up his teaching position for full-time research and who now lives at Grimmauld Place, too – is sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed. He refuses to sleep anywhere else anymore, now that Albus has finally told him the nature of Harry and his last conversation, a few hours before Voldemort fell at long last. Albus had realised too late the guilt would ultimately crawl inside the Potions master’s mind and body. For he also knows, now, why Severus had left without a word at the time: it is not the time for secrets anymore.

Any and all information matters. He knows Mr Nerys has spent most of the last three years going through the thousands of files at the Library of Alexandria; rummaging through parchments, tomes, old manuscripts and other volumes of all eras, languages and origins possible with the help of a determined Hermione Granger. This fire inside her is burning strongly again, thanks to this new objective of hers. She _knows_ she will find a way to reach out for her friend’s soul and that Harry will soon be back with them. Return to them.

It has given her the strength to keep on living and she shares her enthusiasm with young Ron Weasley, who tags along and helps in any way he can. He wants to believe Miss Granger so much ...

Albus sighs, his attention returning to Severus. Despite his strained posture, his former student’s face is relaxed, almost pleasant. Quietly summoning a thick, warm blanket, Albus makes his way to the side of the bed and covers Severus without waking him up.

Deep down inside, he fears the day the younger man will finally give up hope and will let go of Harry. For if it happens, Albus believes Harry’s last anchor to this world will be gone and there will not be anything for him to come back to. The white-haired, bearded man has understood that much in the past few years. With one last lingering look, Albus leaves the quiet room – _it’s too quiet, too silent in here; there should be laughter, joy, screaming, shouting contests; and kisses, hugs, sex, singing ... but there isn’t. All that was good has receded in a tiny corner and I hope,_ we _hope for it to expand itself again, to come back and bring happiness back with it ..._ – and goes downstairs, in the kitchen, for a hot cup of tea.

Merlin knows he needs it.

#

When Severus dreams, and it happens quite often of late, he is not on the verge of creating a revolutionary potion as he used to dream about several years ago. Instead, he finds himself uncomfortably sitting on a fucking, flying broom.

He flies over the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in London, then he magically finds himself scouting over Privet Drive, in Little Whinging, Surrey and the second he blinks, he is surfing the strong winds over Hogwarts and it goes on like this; Severus Snape, flying on a broom, being teleported _– this cannot be someone Apparating me, it cannot be done! –_ to the different places where Harry Potter has lived his life. And it keeps on going: James and Lily Potter’s empty, decrepit house that is Godric’s Hollow; the Burrow, where there always is someone, some noise, some life; Drogheda, where Harry owns a retreat in the suburbs of Dublin; and even the flat where he spent six months, several years back, in Manchester.

Snape attempts to land at every new location, hoping he could at least explore the grounds, see if there are traces of Harry – a ghost, maybe? – no matter how ridiculous it may sound.

But the broom between his thighs is insubordinate, it refuses to obey even the most simple command. 

Severus Snape is desperate and he hates that feeling.

In his dreams, the sun is shinning bright, always, but curiously enough, there is a thick layer of grey clouds higher in the sky. It looks inoffensive enough – just like your everyday clouds in Great Britain – and he doesn’t pay heed to it; until, that is, it starts to rumble and becomes inky black. He can feel the thunder before he hears it and then, all of a sudden, everything is back to normal. It doesn’t happen every time Severus dreams, so he gives it little attention. He never cared much for the fights between clouds.

Later, much later, he would understand and regret his lack of attention immensely.

When he wakes up, sometimes in the middle of the night, he is drenched in cold sweat, muscles quivering and cramped, hands shaking uncontrollably, brow frowning deeply and his head aching. He cannot pin what it is that he has just missed – he _never_ remembers his dreams – and he is on the verge of crying – Severus Snape never cries, never cried.

He wants to scream, too, but he doesn’t. Potter is there, by his side on the bed and he does not wish to disturb his sleep – _that’s rubbish and you know it ... He hasn’t awaken and you just_ hope _he will open his green eyes, one day.  
_  
Not that he believes Potter will. He never was one to do what people expects of him if he can.

And when he wakes up, shivering, on the stuffed rocking chair – _damn you, Albus! –_ by Potter’s bed, Snape remembers.

Guilt.

Potter had thought, after that night in the tiny tent in the fields, surrounded by dozens of similar shelters, that Severus had abandoned his to his fate. He could never blame Potter for that – they never were two to speak much, at any time, really. Still, it hurt. Had he been by the brat’s side, Harry would have got rid of Voldemort. Collapsed, maybe, and he would have been conscious, strong wiry arms around him, protecting him, keeping him grounded, anchored. Instead, Potter had collapsed under Voldemort’s final assault, seconds before he managed to kill the madman; passing out a few moments later.

Never to wake up.

Ever.

Again.

_Act VII: Flowing downstream  
_  
They are flying together, brooms side by side, huge smiles tearing both their faces in two: shows of teeth and gums; merry wrinkles at the corner of their eyes. They can’t hold hands at this speed but it doesn’t matter.

Soon, they’ll reach Severus’ hideaway a little bit west of Aberdeen and they’ll finally be together. Alone at last. Harry’s happy laughter is swallowed by the powerful winds but Severus can hear it nonetheless in his head. It rings bright, clear, innocent, carefree. The cares of the Wizarding world do not lie on his frail shoulders anymore. He has been redeemed and so has Severus.

Neither can recall ever feeling they had so many choices, so many opportunities waiting for them.

They do not have a care in the world;

they have the world;

the world is theirs.

They follow the coast, survey green plains and hills where animals roam mindlessly in a facsimile of liberty. Neither Severus and Harry, nor the beasts, can see the fences and thus the animals shall remain free; until the day they reach the barriers marking the limits of their world. Finally, they are upon Aberdeen. They modify their trajectory to the west and fly closer to the grounds until they can see Severus’ little house, not far from Fraser.

They land with grace on the rock-paved alley that leads to the porch and cast a mutual _Finite Incantatem_ on their respective Disillusionment charms. Still smiling, Harry takes Severus’ proffered hand and lets the older man precede him inside. The second the door closes behind them, however, the smile becomes predatory, and the eyes, hungry. Shrugging his travelling cloak off his slender shoulders, Harry takes a step forward, stretches out his hand and grips Severus’ wrist, tugging at it, one eyebrow raised in a silent query.

The only answer he gets is the slight movement of his companion’s chin toward a dark corner of the opened sitting room, where a flight of stairs apparently leads to the first floor. With a playfulness Severus has not witnessed in years – if not a decade!, Harry cajoles him into following his taut, wriggling arse upstairs to the bedroom where a double bed awaits them. Severus follows the younger man easily, even letting another smile curls the corner of his severe mouth for a short while.

Tugging at his shirttails, removing his wool jumper, unzipping his trousers, Harry is impatient and Severus knows it, feels it. And thus, he complies without a word of protest when the younger man, green eyes shining in the relative darkness, divests him of his clothes and wraps his own limbs around him in their stead. Without hesitation, Severus moves them to the bed, delicately lowering his charge on the mattress and devotes himself to the task of getting reacquainted with Harry’s body.

They have all the time in the world.

_Act VIII: Caught in the current  
_  
It comes to Nerys as a surprise, when one of the souls reports the news to him. 

They are still searching for an explanation in books, five years after Voldermort’s defeat, and even with the useful help of Mrs Weasley, they have yet to find significant information regarding the errands of Harry Potter’s soul.

Closing the tome he is perusing with a sigh, Nerys rubs the bridge of his nose, releasing some of the pressure that has cumulated in the last few years. Perhaps he will have to write a book, gathering all the facts and information they have discovered so the next time it happens, the world will know what to expect.

But before he starts on this book, there are a few things to deal with. He has to talk to the Weasleys, and send an owl to Dumbledore – although he probably already has made the discovery and figured out what happened – to let him know they both are all right.

They have found each other, somehow. The soul that has brought him the news is clueless as to how they have done so, but Nerys knows better. He can guess, he can tell that it has all been Severus Snape’s doing.

Snape, who does not believe in _souls business_ , who throws away all theories about lost, errand souls with a bitter laugh; Snape has been the one to figure out a way to find, to anchor Potter’s soul at long last.

They ought to all be grateful to him for doing that, he thinks soberly. Merlin knows what the young man has been going through in the last five years. Probably like this myth about that Greek man chained to a mountaintop where a prey bird would come and eat his liver ... He tries to remember the whole fable ... Ah, yes. The man was immortal – a god, maybe? Nerys cannot remember – and so the man could not die after the large bird was done with his lunch. Instead, he would feel his liver re-grow in his abdomen and the next day, the bird would come back and eat his liver, again. Everyday of his immortal life, for the eternity.

Thanks to Severus Snape, Mr Potter’s eternity had only lasted five years.

_Act IX: Don't you know me by now?_

Severus Snape is in the sky again, and this time the clouds already are dark, thundering, complaining and growling, and it won’t stop. Never one to lose his patience over such trivial things, Severus stays calm and poised on his broom, until he surveys Godric’s Hollow for the third time that night.

Enough is enough, he thinks, and so he tries to figure out what spell could calm the angry sky but cannot think of any. Grinding is teeth, jaw set and eyes looking up, Snape decides he might as well go up and try to figure out what is happening. 

He is standing just under the thick layer of clouds now, and despite the noise it seems to him as though he hears something – someone? – that has nothing to do with the haze over him. The air is much thicker here, damp and it is hard to breathe. He listens intently, continuously, scanning the visible surface, wondering what might probably be there, inside them, and over them, too; and he hears it, suddenly.

His heart is trying to make its way out of his chest for he recognises, identifies the cry that has just reverberated through his body.

Harry.

Harry is here; somewhere up _there_ , maybe hurting, in pain or distressed and there’s nothing he can do ... or is there? He feels another cry and then nothing.

Silence.

The clouds are still dark and opaque, but they have stopped complaining, rumbling, thundering. Severus is afraid. He’s scared shitless, there’s this feeling in his gut telling him something is awfully wrong. Definitely. He cannot feel Harry anymore and he makes a decision, right there and then.

Giving his broom a sharp tug up, he dives into the clouds.  
 _  
Shit!_ Would he dare open his mouth, endless streams of curses would escape, but he can barely breathe and has no air to waste. Instead, he tried to open his eyes, but to no avail. It’s so dark, so dense in here there is no way he would manage to find Potter ... This silence is the most unnerving thing he has ever felt, he decides on the spot. It is heavy, threatening, it warns you not to make a noise ... Has Harry been reduced to silence? Is it why it has gone quiet all of a sudden?

And Snape worries, wonders if Harry is in danger, if he is still in the clouds or maybe he has gone through them? Without hesitation, he decides to go up, to pierce this density and to see for himself what there is to be found up those damn clouds.

His lungs are aching, burning from the lack of oxygen but Snape knows he won’t return down there, not until he has solved this mystery and has found Harry. Eyes still closed, breath still held, and head suddenly light and dizzy, Severus knows he is about to faint and wonders if by falling off his broom he’ll finally be able to touch the ground. Seconds later, as he gives in and lets the darkness invade his mind, he realises he will never know: there is fresh air reaching his lungs, oxygen filling his blood. He opens his eyes, surprised and pleased to find out that he is over the clouds now, and that fifty feet ahead of him lies a thin silhouette on the length of a floating broom.

He can recognise that limp body amongst hundreds of others, and, heart thumping wildly in his ribcage, he accelerates until he reaches the still form’s side. With a heavy sigh of relief, Severus notices the younger man is breathing, though unconscious. Inhaling and exhaling slowly to calm himself – it isn’t the time to hyperventilate he berates himself – he reaches a hand out to Harry and touches the thin skin of his wrist, searching for his pulse. It is there, weak and unsteady, but Severus has faith, now, that everything will be all right. There is nothing about Harry’s condition that he cannot take care of with a few spells.

He proceeds quickly and efficiently and suddenly Harry stirs. Holding his breath, Severus does not say a word, afraid of what the younger man’s reaction might be. Harry’s eyes flutter open, he blinks owlishly from behind his spectacles and he sees Severus.

Immediately, Harry throws himself on Snape’s broom and kisses him hungrily, drinking up any word, any protest the Potions master might have had, and Severus complies, opening up for Harry, wrapping his arms tightly around the frail frame. He wants to tell Harry he’s sorry, that everything’s going to be all right now that he found him but Harry doesn’t seem to care, simply relishes in his presence next to him. So Severus relaxes slightly and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of this man he has not seen in years and for the first time since he was told of Harry’s condition, he feels relaxed, at peace with himself and with the world.

When he finally opens his eyes, it is because he has felt Harry gasp. He looks around them and slowly a smile spreads on his face and illuminates his features.

The clouds are gone, vanished, and they are in the air, and he vaguely recognises where they are, somewhere in Lothian, not far from Edinburgh he would say... That would be where Harry hid in his seventh year, with Severus as his Secret Keeper. And so he decides Harry and he are in dire need of a well-deserved break. With one last kiss, Severus lets Harry climb back on his own broom and they start the long journey to his little house in Grampian. 

There will be time for questions and answers later.

_Act X: Where we're going  
_  
Dumbledore remembers how Harry and Severus looked like when he last had a look in the room before he went to bed last evening. The Potions master, now plagued with arthritis and rheumatisms, was lying on the bed by Harry’s side, a frown upon his face and an arm thrown protectively around the skinny frame of his former student. Harry was the same as usually, messy hair and content look, though he was only thin skin and pointy bones nowadays.

He is taking care of the kettle and making some tea for himself and Severus when he receives an owl from Mr Nerys; the brave man has never stopped helping them in all the ways he could. He offers the poor bird a few treats before it has to go back to Alexandria, and then unseals the parchment.

He reads the first few lines and a smile breaks on his face. He quickly makes his way to the bedroom, the unfinished letter on the tray he brings upstairs – three cups, scones, biscuits and pastries, sugar, cream and the pot of hot English Breakfast tea – and as he opens the door, the tray falls to the floor with a loud crashing sound. This is not what Albus expected.

His boys are in the same position as they were the previous night when he left them to their rest but something is different ...

Neither is breathing, he soon realises.

With heavily shaking hands, Albus picks the letter from where it lies on the bedroom floor, soaked through with tea and cream, and this time he reads the whole missive, as tears slowly wet his eyes and cheeks.

Harry and Severus’ souls have found each other at long last; they are anchored and have found a withdrawn shelter where they will be able to spend eternity together, one of Nerys’ souls reported to him. Severus reached out for Harry, and found him.

Albus looks at Severus’ face, where a smile lingers – even in his death – and the former Headmaster wonders if this is what Severus has been trying to achieve during all those years, to let his soul reach out for Harry’s, grab it by the hand and fly away with it to make up for all the years they had lost before and after the war. And suddenly there is a smile on his bearded, wrinkled face.

He supposes he will never know.

_Delusion Angel_

Daydream delusion  
Limousine eyelash  
Oh baby, with your pretty face  
Drop a tear in my wine glass  
Look at those big eyes  
See what you mean to me  
Sweet cakes, and milk shakes  
I’m a delusion angel  
I’m a fantasy parade  
I want you to know what I think  
Don’t want you to guess anymore  
You have no idea where I came from  
We have no idea where we’re going  
Lodged in life  
Like branches in the river  
Flowing downstream  
Caught in the current  
I carry you  
You’ll carry me  
That’s how it could be  
Don’t you know me  
Don’t you know me by now?  
(c) _David Jewell, 1995  
_ _  
~*~ finis ~*~_


End file.
